apples and oranges
by oh-the-linsanity
Summary: What's in a name? Jean thinks Christa has a few things to learn. (post ch. 52)


"Hey, mind if I sit here?"

Historia—Christa—whoever she is, looks up with mild surprise as Jean wiggles beside her on the step of the back porch. He's got an apple in his mouth and another in his hand. With a few quick rubs on his shirt, he offers the spare apple to her. She smiles politely. "No, thank you."

He rolls his eyes and grabs her wrist gently before pressing the ruby red apple in her palm. "Eat the apple." He almost laughs at the noise she makes before she takes a bite and Jean nods in approval. "Next time, don't give your rations to Sasha, okay?"

She's back to staring at her feet, and then to the bruising horizon, stars littered like faint scars in between shadowed and wispy clouds. "It's fine; I've not been very hungry lately anyhow."

Jean leans back against the porch and grunts as his elbow bumps against the wood in attempts to prop his hands behind his head. "Doesn't matter. You have to eat, just like the rest of us." Quiet weaves between them until Jean starts tapping a rhythm with his foot, occasionally bumping his leg with hers to the beat. It takes a few times, but eventually she giggles, bumping her leg with his. "You're not supposed to be out here, missy," he teases, and the faint smile on her face drops like she's seen a corpse.

"Sorry," she almost stutters, yanking the half-eaten apple from her face. She clutches it to her chest and starts to get up. "I'll just—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Jean reaches out, grabs her wrist, tugs her back down. "No one's gonna see you all the way out here on a back porch with no light. Your identity is concealed, Historia Reiss."

He mentally notes that the look in her eyes is hesitant, almost fearful, as she sits back down and once again stares off into the distance. She stares at the apple for a few minutes before she decides to start eating it again. "It is Historia, right?" he asks after some time, not willing to welcome the silence.

"Yeah, my birth name is Historia R—"

"No, no, I know that, but is that what you prefer to be called? By the team?"

She turns her head sharply. "Well, Ymir said—"

"I don't care what Ymir said." Jean says, but not unkindly. "I want to know what you say."

It takes her a few minutes.

In the meantime he takes to watching her _think, _and he comes to the conclusion that she doesn't do it often. Not that she's unintelligent, but after her spiel at the table earlier this afternoon, he doesn't think she's ever been asked much of her own opinion. He vaguely wonders just how much Ymir meant to her, with her blunt attitude, all too similar to his, trying to get the small girl to speak.

She probably really misses her. They probably really miss each other, he thinks.

Christa—Historia—she's yet to tell him, continues to sit on the porch, biting her bottom lip and wringing her hands like a towel soaked in her own discomfort and indecisiveness. "Remember when I first met you?" She turns to him, eyes downcast as she reaches for his hand. Her fingers are ice as she wraps his much larger hand in hers. "I said, 'Hello, my name is Christa. It's nice to meet you.' And do you know what you did?"

Jean stares at her curiously, mouth twitching into a smile. "I can't say I quite remember, but I hope I at least gave my name?"

"You smiled at me." She lets go of his hand. "I couldn't remember the last time someone had done that." She turns back to face the plains; the sky is no longer a painting of bright hues or muted colors—instead it is charred, chalky, and dark. "I wasn't without them completely growing up, but the smiles were always…" she trails off for, thinking, trying to find the words, and Jean lets her.

Suddenly, she jerks and she scoots right beside him, her thigh touching his. She reaches out for him, her hands touching both sides of his face. But this isn't a gesture of romance—she's awed, as her dainty hands tap along his temples before her fingers run along the edges of his eyes, pressing into the dark circles beneath his lower lashes. He looks tired. He starts to close her eyes, but Christa's breath comes out in a puff, tickling his chin. "Don't blink," she whispers, and he obeys. Her right hand moves to play with his hair, while the other slides down his cheek and rubs faint circles on his face. "When you smile, there's _light _in your eyes," and she sounds like Armin after he figured out he had access to the military library—full of wonder and excitement. Her eyes drift to the sky. "Like stars."

Jean chuckles and gently places her hands in her lap. "I think you're giving me way too much credit."

"No, it's not just you, it's all of you." Christa elaborates. "I know things have been rough, and smiles are a rare thing, but when you do…it's nice." She chuckles drily. "They're not all for me, but sometimes they are. I loved it. But…"

"But what?"

"It was because I was Christa Renz. I didn't matter when I was Historia Reiss. But Christa…Christa mattered. To Ymir. To the squads. To you. To everyone."

Jean stares at her. He stares at her for seconds, almost minutes, before he smacks his lips together and lets out an overdramatic sigh. "I guess you're right," he says rather loudly. "Well, hurry up and finish your orange and get back inside."

"Orange?"

He points to the apple in her hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah. Orange."

She laughs, giving him a funny look. "This is an apple." She holds it up and takes the last bite as example.

Jean scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. "Nah, I decided I wanted to call it an orange. So, now it's an orange."

Christa isn't sure if she should laugh or consider getting his head checked out. "What are you talking about," she asks, smiling despite herself. "It's still an apple, no matter what you call it."

Jean just stares at her again.

The realization is like a slap in the face. "Oh," she whispers and looks down, bashful.

"People like you because of who you are, not what your name is," Jean tells her, scooting close enough beside her to throw an arm around her shoulder and jostle her in a friendly gesture. "At least we do. I don't know anything about your family name or what it means," the implications of her family secret is heavy in the air, a topic he doesn't want to get into, a topic for another day. "But you could have told me your name was 'Eren,' and I still would have smiled at you. I still would have been your friend."

"Eren…?"

Jean scowls. "Ugh. Eren." He moves his arm back to his lap and leans back. "Y'know, if your name was Eren, maybe I wouldn't cringe whenever I heard the kid's name. What a brat."

"You don't hate him nearly as much as you say you do," Christa says. "I know you're only teasing him."

It's quiet for a beat. "Maybe not anymore," he finally says.

"See? I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were," Jean replies smoothly. "I just think you have a thing or two to learn."

"I agree," she replies politely.

"Your name won't matter to the others here, okay?" Jean tells her. "We'll fight for your life…as long as you fight for ours. Understand?"

It is subtle and soft, as soft as a threat could be, but it was a threat. With all the recent developments surrounding her life, she knows he isn't the only one that fears yet another betrayal from the survey corps. "Understood."

"Good." He stands up abruptly and offers her a hand to help her up. "So what will it be? Apples or Oranges?"

She throws her apple core in the dirt before she takes his hand. "…It had been awhile since I'd had apples. And I got to say, it tasted pretty good."

Jean smiles. "As you wish, Historia."

-/-

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AN: There's no excuse for this I just wanted to write a fic between Christa and Jean because not many, if any, exist. I think while Armin would have been just as capable of having this conversation with her, I feel like Jean is more likely to actually approach her. Armin's an observer, he hoards all his information for strategy. ANYWAY hope you enjoyed it and it wasn't too out of character bleh. I just really want to give Historia a hug the poor little darling.


End file.
